


Situation Normal

by karmula



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anidala, F/M, Fluff, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Soulmates, Humour, Mild Sensual Content, Mutual Pining, Rescue Missions, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmula/pseuds/karmula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Anakin is the least subtle and most grumpy person ever, Padmé is possibly the cutest senator-slash-hostage-escapee ever, Obi-Wan is a sassy motherfucker who is just so, so tired of his former Padawan always getting him into trouble, and Ahsoka saves the day. Oh, and Anakin and Padmé are sloppily, cheesily, almost (but not quite) embarrassingly in love with each other. AKA: Situation normal.</p><p>Written for <a href="http://royalamidalas.tumblr.com/">royalamidalas</a> (to fill the prompt <i>something Anidala</i>) as part of a Star Wars Day gift exchange. Happy Star Wars Day, Piper, and May the 4th be with you! <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Situation Normal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoyalAmidalas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalAmidalas/gifts).



> I tried to keep this as in-character as possible, but it's actually my first Anidala fic, so if anything about it is off, please forgive me. I hope you enjoy, and feel free to leave a kudos or comment if you did! :)

“Whew – that was a close call,” Anakin huffs, closing the doors of the broom closet behind him and moving quickly back to make room for the others. He closes his eyes and extends his non-cybernetic hand, channeling the Force as best he can while in his present condition to pull the latch tightly shut from across the tight space. His very skin seems to hum, buzzing with the will of the Force; finally, a soft click meets his ears, and he reopens his eyes, glancing over at his Master with a lopsided grin, waiting with his head cocked for some indication of approval.

Obi-Wan gives him none, replying only with a curt “Indeed” before raising the the hood of his cloak, his face receding into the woven fabric.

When neither Obi-Wan nor Padmé show any sign of having been impressed by his skill, Anakin’s face falls, and he becomes acutely aware of the way his breaths mingle, hot and panting, with those of his companions – his Master and his wife, their faces brightly flushed with the effort of their narrow escape – inside the tiny room in which they have found themselves, so that even as he finally catches his breath, he is left feeling distinctly stuffy and uncomfortable.

It doesn’t help that adrenaline still pumps through his veins, a tangible, chemical incentive to act upon the urges for action that his restless mind echo. He crosses and uncrosses his arms several times, feeling stiff and uncertain in his idleness and hating it with a passion. Underneath the acrid stench of Padmé’s still-smoking restraints, which she discards, sliced neatly in half only moments before by the swift cleave of Anakin’s blade, to the ground with a disgusted expression, Anakin can smell something else, something - something almost musky, something far too intimately human to be smelling in such confined quarters, with Obi-Wan at his side.

Anakin shifts his weight from one leg to the other, shuffling across the already-limited floor space as he does so.

“Ouch, Anakin - you’re stepping on my _foot!_ ” Padmé hisses, wriggling out from underneath the sole of the Jedi’s leather-booted toes and biting her lip to stifle a whine. There’s barely enough room to manoeuvre inside the closet, and she bumps her elbows several times against unrelenting duracrete, but finally she manages to put enough distance between herself and her husband that she can hold his gaze long enough to make her disapproval clear.

Her chocolate eyes harden to shards of jasper that seem to bore into him; as if their sheer proximity weren’t enough, Anakin thinks bitterly, now he has to deal with _this_ on top of that, too? Senator or no, it won’t stand.

“Well _sorry_ , your Highness! It’s not like I just saved our lives or anything, is it?” Anakin shoots back in a hushed voice, flashing the senator a scathing look. He says something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like it begins with “ex-Queens” and ends with “stupid politicians... all the damn same”, connected by a string of Huttese curses vile enough to curl armpit hair, and Padmé all but gasps.

“Anakin Skywalker!” she exclaims, then, hurrying to correct herself: “I mean, General Skywalker. That is _so_ immature, and _just_ like you -”

“Will _both_ of you shut up?” Obi-Wan interrupts, craning his head around in the cramped space to give them both a meaningful look, eyebrows furrowed. He zeroes in on his former Padawan, eyes narrowing as he quickly adopts the trademark typical-lecturing-Master tone Anakin dislikes so thoroughly.

“You might have saved our lives for the time being, Anakin, but if they hear us we’ll be right back where we started, so I suggest both of you stop your bickering post-haste and focus your energies on figuring out an escape plan. You can argue later, if it’s really so important to you.”

“Fine,” Anakin grumbles, backing up against the southmost wall of the tiny closet so that Obi-Wan can turn around fully to face them, his back against the locked doors. He makes sure to mind his feet as he does so - Padmé’s dress, pretty as it is, takes up an awful lot of floor space, and he doesn’t think he could stand being berated a second time. It’s hard enough to hold his tongue as it is; the words _Why did you have to wear a kriffing ballgown to damn treaty negotiations, for Force’s sake?!_ dance like blaster bolts on his tongue.

It really is a beautiful gown, though; that Anakin can’t deny. In fact, he can barely take his eyes off of it, off of _her_ , even while he knows his thoughts should really be concerned with planning their next move.

Instead, he can’t help but marvel at the way the silk is tailored to fit her body so perfectly, the way it clings to her angles and curves like a second skin, like a glove. He can’t help but admire the geometric designs stitched so lovingly and with such painstaking precision into the bodice, the way the moonstones and slivers of brassy metal studded across her breast gleam in the dim lighting. He harbours a special appreciation, too, for the way the dress sheers out at her neck and along the sleeves, the smoothness of her skin evident underneath. The fabric is a gentle, dusky tan, only a few shades darker than his own skin, and flares out at her shins, pooling on the floor as if it were liquid, rather than a solid article of clothing.

Feeling remarkably hot, Anakin all but tears at his bottom lip with chattering teeth, tugging urgently at the neckline of his own clothes, sharply aware of his tight they feel against his throat, how constricting.

With his eyes averted, he fails to notice that Padmé does the same thing, her perfectly-manicured fingers trembling, as if filled to bursting with something she can’t quite contain.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan says, in response to a comment his Padawan has long forgotten about, dragging Anakin back to the present moment. Obi-Wan rubs his temples and pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh, apparently having noticed Anakin’s absence. _Was I that obvious?_

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but as Anakin refocuses his attentions on his Master, he thinks maybe he sees the first brush of silver feathering his ginger hair, glimmering faintly underneath the drawn hood of his cloak; it only makes him feel more guilty for not paying him his full attention. Though, not guilty enough to actually do so. He’s not sure he could calm his thoughts enough to do so even if he tried.

His fingers twitch, so he runs them through his own hair, purely to give them something to do, and is overcome with a sudden urge to run them through Padmé’s, instead. Oh, how _good_ that would feel, to peel away his gloves and comb his bare fingers through her thick, tumbling locks, to work at the braids that pin them to the nape of her neck so expertly until they cascade, undone, like a waterfall over the planes of her back. How good it would feel, to bury his hands in that soft, endless hair, to lean forward until his world was filled with it and nothing else, to inhale deeply, to wrap his free hand around her waist and -

“Now, regarding this escape plan.”

“Yes?” Padmé says eagerly, at the same time as Anakin starts and says, “I’m listening.” They grin at each other, their squabbling - and their pining - momentarily forgotten in an instant of sheer childish pleasure, and then turn back as one singular unit to face the older man with wide, expectant eyes.

Obi-Wan smiles sheepishly, shuffling underneath his robes as he moves to rest his hand on the saber at his belt. “Well, I’m open to suggestions.”

All of a sudden, the even, relentless drum of marching fills the air, muffled but growing in volume at an alarming rate.

“Oh, Force,” Obi-Wan mutters, tightening his grip on his weapon as he draws it. Anakin does the same, igniting the blade and oh, dear, does its blue light flatter Padmé _just_ right, the fullness of her cheeks so gorgeously prominent in this new cast. What he wouldn’t give to have this closet to themselves, to be able to reach out, unhindered by the damned Code, by the presence of his Master, and -

Shaking his head, he angles his blade towards the door and spreads his feet as far as the closet allows, exchanging a nod with Obi-Wan as he, too, assumes a battle-ready stance.

“Stay back, Padmé,” Anakin growls, flexing his leather-clad fingers. He taps them rhythmically on the hilt of his weapon, keeping pace with the thunder of his heart. The adrenaline that was only just beginning to die down returns in a fresh wave, and with a vengeance. He is seamlessly attuned to the thrum of the beings around him, ridiculously sensitive to every tiny sensation, in total harmony with the Living Force. “We’ll take care of this.”

“Ani - General Skywalker, no! There’s too many of them. Surely you can see that? We’ll be overrun if we try to take them all on, no matter how capable you are.”

“She’s right,” Obi-Wan says, faltering. “I don’t like it, Anakin, but perhaps -”

“What other choice do we have?” Anakin snaps, and _he’s_ right, too, loathe as any of them, save for himself, are to admit it. He bites his tongue, wishing he hadn’t been so harsh but knowing it was the only way, and moves to stand protectively in front of Padmé, jaw clenched, ready for the attack he knows is coming, the attack he knows is only a few short moments away -

Only when it does come, it comes from behind, from the wall at Padmé’s back. Right through it, in fact, and very nearly through her, too. The senator cries out, clapping a hand over her mouth a half a second later in a vain effort to silence the noise, as the shimmering green blade of a lightsaber pushes its way through the duracrete.

Instinctively, Anakin’s shoots out a hand and wraps it around Padmé’s waist, drawing her flush to his chest, very deliberately ignoring the way Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows at the gesture.

“I’ll handle this,” Anakin says, the words leaving his lips as naturally as breath, like they’re second nature, even though he has no idea what exactly it is he’s supposed to be handling, or who exactly the being wielding the saber on the other side of the wall could be.

The blade fizzes and crackles, ploughing its way through the wall in a half-circle. Glowing melted duracrete drips to the floor, dangerously close to the hem of Padmé‘s dress. It stops for a moment, joined in the next by a second, shorter blade, yellow this time, and continues its journey, now twice as fast. When the arc is completed, the circle falls away, not forwards, but backwards, as if tugged by some invisible force - which, Anakin realises, at precisely the same time he also realises who has just saved them, is exactly what it was.

“You’ll handle it, Skyguy?” Ahsoka says through the hole in the wall, smirking, the hand holding her shoto saber perched snugly on her cocked hip like it belongs there. “Because it seems to me that _I’m_ the one who just saved _your_ butt. And if that isn’t handling it, I don’t know what is.”

Obi-Wan chuckles, climbing gingerly out of the gaping hole in the wall and brushing away the red-hot globs of duracrete that stick to his sleeves. “Good job, young one,” he says, patting the little Togruta’s shoulder with a light hand.

“If only that was going to be reflected in my report,” Anakin faux-sighs, grinning as he makes to step out of the closet, too. “Sadly, I’m afraid _I’ll_ be the one who comes out a hero. Funny how that works.”

“Yeah, funny,” Ahsoka says, grinning right back at him. Grinning perhaps a little too wide, considering she’s just been made fun of, Anakin thinks, frowning - and when she turns and winks at Obi-Wan, Anakin _knows_ something is up, and knows that whatever it is, it cannot be good. Anakin’s foot falls as he tries to figure out just what is going on, what act of sabotage these two have conspired to commit against him, and as soon as he does, his friends seize the opportunity.

Ahsoka and Obi-Wan raise their hands in unison, and the Force surges around them, fluctuating and undulating like the ever-shifting tides of the sea at their call. It builds, a great presence of pure, sizzling energy in the air around and between them. And then the cut-out section of duracrete begins to rise, and understanding washes over Anakin like a wave.

“It’s just unfortunate that you won’t be the one _writing_ the report,” Obi-Wan says, feigning disappointment as the duracrete slab begins to obscure his frame. “Oh well. I’m sure your Padawan and I will manage without you.”

“Obi-Wan - Ahsoka - now, hang on just a moment -”

“But it was so important for you to bicker with Senator Amidala _before_ ,” Obi-Wan teases. “Surely it’s still just as important now?”

“This will be good for you,” Ahsoka agrees, nodding, a playful gleam in her bright eyes. Behind him, Padmé giggles, the tinkling of bells, and touches his forearm with a feather-light fingernail. Perhaps this isn’t such a bad idea after all, he muses, turning to look over his shoulder at his wife, who cocks an eyebrow, her brown eyes twinkling. There’s just one problem.

“But the droids -” Anakin splutters, gesturing wildly.

“Will be taken care of,” Obi-Wan finishes smugly, airily waving a hand as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. The slab has by now fully eclipsed him, had hidden Ahsoka from view long ago. Their voices are muffled from behind its shape as it slots neatly into the empty space where it had been before, the Force spiking again as it is wielded to fuse the greyish puzzle-piece back into place.

“Enjoy!” Ahsoka calls, her voice already fading from earshot.

Once their smug laughter and the hollow ring of their footsteps has died down completely, Anakin becomes aware that the marching has stopped, to, or at least has ceased to be near enough to be heard. If he focused, he would probably be able to hear the keen of blaster shots, the powerful swing of ignited lightsabers, the shouting and clashing of battle being waged on the other side of the ship - but focus, at least on anything other than his wife, is something that so successfully eludes him at present that he can barely even think of it as a far-off possibility.

“Hey,” comes Padmé’s soft voice, sweet and breathy and low. It raises the hair on the nape of his neck, sets off a tingling across his entire body that practically drives him wild.

And then he turns around fully, his back against the newly-sealed wall, and her eyes are impossibly wide, so close to his he swears he _hears_ them as they flick down to his parted lips, then back up again to meet his gaze with an intensity that _burns_. She’s so close that he feels the brush of her lashes as she blinks, that she fills his entire world, that he is blind and deaf and dumb to anything that _isn’t_ Padmé.

She laughs again. Her breath smells like Naboo, like summer, like the perfume of new blooms, and then she’s kissing him and oh, how sweet her lips taste, he could _drink_ from them, could be satisfied with that flavour and that flavour only to sustain him until his dying day.

Anakin curls a fist in her hair, beginning to unwind the careful creation at the nape of her neck, and parts his lips with a soft moan as she deepens the kiss with a slow, burning urgency, not unlike the sluggish flow of magma at a planet’s core.

“Padmé,” he sighs, his head spinning, pressed so flush against her that he barely knows where she ends and he starts. They are one and the same, fused together, their Force signatures inextricably intertwined and pulsing with a shared and unparalleled energy.

“I love you, Anakin,” Padmé says, in a voice so tender Anakin can’t help but believe it, and he does too, does love her, truly and deeply and undyingly. So this is what he tells her.

“I love you too, Padmé. So much.”


End file.
